


out of all the hair related puns you could have made, you went with hairy potter?

by itnevergoesout



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, F/M, Fluff, everything is so platonic she says, what nerds honestly, with her tongue in his mouth and his hands in her hair
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-05
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:45:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9581864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itnevergoesout/pseuds/itnevergoesout
Summary: in which clarke doesn't cry over a haircut, bellamy can make a hundred types of plaits, and everything is extremely platonic. really.





	

Clarke: I hate it

Clarke: I hate it and I’m going to cry

Bellamy: Breathe, princess.

Bellamy: Hate what?

Seven seconds later, Bellamy’s phone buzzes with an incoming snap from Clarke. Her face is all contorted, mouth in a pout and eyes tightly screwed shut. The skin around them does seem a little pink and swollen, but he can’t look too carefully because he only has six seconds to read her caption, which is a string of emojis he cannot begin to decipher. There’s one of the girl emoticons, a scissors, and a crying face, and, for some inexplicable reason, a baby bottle. Replaying the snap offers no further clarity, so he makes himself comfortable on the couch and calls her, setting his phone on the armrest and putting it on speaker.

“I’m going to cry!” Clarke wails as soon as she answers.

“You mentioned that. Tell me why?”

“I got a haircut.”

“Jesus, Princess,” Bellamy breathes out, hand going to his heart. “I thought you were dying of radiation poisoning.”

He hears her sniff, but he can’t tell if it’s affected or if she’s actually crying. “I cut off _five inches_ , Bell. That’s like, a year’s worth of hair. It’s practically a wig. Maybe I should get a wig. Or at least extensions. Will you help me pick extensions?”

Bellamy smiles at his phone, fond. “First come home, okay? I bet it’ll look better in person.”

“Okay,” Clarke answers. “I’m coming.”  
By the time Clarke storms into the apartment, there’s lasagna cooling on the stove and Bellamy’s throwing together a Caesar salad with loads of dressing and croutons and minus the parmesan, just the way Clarke likes it. “I figured you’d need comfort food,” he says, not looking up from the lettuce he’s cutting. There’s a thud that means Clarke has sat herself down on the floor. “Thanks,” she mumbles, and that’s when he finally turns around.

It’s… shorter. Not short, because it still touches her shoulders, but her hair was halfway down her back this morning. It frames her face perfectly though, draws his attention to her eyes, and as far as Bellamy’s concerned, that’s a good thing. Clarke with long hair was cute, but Clarke with short hair is so beautiful she’s going to send him to an early death.

(He makes the mistake of repeating those words to Miller at the bar the next night, and he falls off his barstool from laughing, clutching his side and wiping away tears. “You’re off the record as my best friend,” Bellamy tells him, grumpy, and Miller replies, “you want two people in the world to know what an idiot you are?”

He can’t say anything to that, so he flips a rude hand gesture somewhere in Miller’s general direction and goes to find Octavia.)

“You don’t like it,” Clarke says now, worrying her lip with her fingers.

“No,” Bellamy says, rushed, “it’s great. Really. You look fantastic.”

Clarke smiles a little. “I still hate it, but I promise I won’t cry.”

“Good,” Bellamy replies, carrying the food out to the coffee table in their living room. “I don’t know what to do with crying girls.”

The lie is so outrageous Clarke finds herself giggling. “I can’t imagine Octavia never cried.”

“She didn’t.” Bellamy smirks, and Clarke takes a bite of pasta. “She tantrumed.”

Bellamy lets Clarke pick some cheesy show on Netflix for them to watch as they eat, and after a couple episodes she seems to be in a better mood. Then she finger-combs her hair and remembers, and Bellamy can’t take her expression. “Hey,” he says gently, “there are plenty of cool things you can do with shorter hair, at least until it grows back a little. I could show you, if you want. I had lots of practice with Octavia.”

Clarke is tempted to wait, to surreptitiously text Octavia for confirmation, but Bellamy looks so earnest, so eager to comfort her, that she trusts him. And she says okay.

…

Bellamy wonders if Clarke will actually take him up on the offer the next morning as he rummages through the fridge for juice, but he needn’t have worried; Clarke stomps into the kitchen and tosses her hairbrush in his general direction while emitting an enormous yawn. “You’re lucky that didn’t end up in your breakfast,” Bellamy comments after he catches it, gesturing towards the eggs he’s just finished scrambling. Clarke pouts in response, scrubbing at her eyes with one hand while reaching for the coffee with another. After Clarke is sufficiently caffeinated and finished eating, she shifts her chair closer to him and slumps down. “Do your worst.”

“Any ideas?” he asks, picking up the brush and working out the knots.

“I’m going to work, so something professional, I guess.”

“And here I was going to dye it purple and comb it into dreadlocks.”  
Clarke turns to stare at him, lifting an eyebrow. “Cultural appropriation much?”

He smirks. “Just wanted to make sure your moral compass was awake, even if you weren’t.”

“Screw you,” Clarke says without heat, and sighs as Bellamy’s fingers begin to comb her hair into what she reckons is a high ponytail of some sort. She loses track after a while, letting the scratch of his nails against her scalp and the way his fingers gently pull on her curls simultaneously relax her and wake her up. “Done,” Bellamy whispers in her ear, tugging her to the bathroom mirror.

It is a high pony, and he managed to work a small braid on the left side of her head before it meets the rest of her ponytail. “You’re hired,” she tells him, and it’s so stupid, but he doesn’t stop smiling, even after he shoves her out the door because she’s going to be late.

…

That first day wasn’t a fluke; it turns out that Bellamy is ridiculously good at doing hair. He can make a hundred types of plaits, because Octavia went through a princess phase when she was seven and apparently that’s how princesses fix their hair. After four compliments at work over her French braid turned messy bun, Clarke googles “hairstyles for shoulder length hair” and emails the first 15 webpages to Bellamy, noting the ones she wants to try in the future, and he good-naturedly agrees to them all.

“You do realize this isn’t normal,” says Raven, flat. They’re having coffee at this small café Raven discovered, Dropship, and Bellamy did her hair for the occasion, half-up space buns with these cute safety pin clips Maya had bought her for her birthday.

“It was a really bad haircut,” Clarke responds, frowning.

“It was a really bad haircut two months ago, Clarke. Your hair grows back in like, a week. You need a new excuse.”

“S’not an excuse.”

“Right,” Raven drawls. “Because it’s totally platonic that your hot roommate, who you’ve been making heart eyes at for the past year and a half, does your hair every morning. No emotions, am I right?”

“Of course,” Clarke agrees, pasting a smile on her face, and when she starts to tell a funny work story involving glitter glue, pizza, and half a dozen five-year-olds, Raven takes the subject change with grace, and Clarke still doesn’t realize that this could be a problem.

…

Of course, all good things must come to an end.

“On a scale of one to saving the world, how busy are you right now?” Clarke asks, slamming the front door behind her and dropping her backpack with a loud thud.

“Harry Potter, but the earlier books. Like, the ones where Voldemort waits until the end of the school year to kill him,” Bellamy calls from the couch, without missing a beat.

“Nerd,” she says, fond, while trying not to find him adorable. It almost works.

He sets down the textbook he’s reading and sits up from his former sprawl. “What’s up?”

“Blow dry my hair, in like, half an hour? Maybe curl it, too?”

“No problem,” he agrees. It’s not like it’s the first time. “Fundraiser with your mom?”

“No.” She frowns. “First date.”

“Oh.” Bellamy blinks. “Cool. Any idea of how exactly you want it?”

“Surprise me.”

He ends up doing these cool crimped waves and sticking a thin gold headband on top, and Clarke is delighted, bouncing out the door and blowing him a kiss. “Niylah seems cool,” she says, “but you’re not working tonight, right? Just in case I need a get-out-of-jail-free card?”

He is so gone for her, it’s frightening. “It’s just me and Julius Caesar,” he answers. “Keep me updated anyways, though.”

She does at first, sends a surreptitious Snapchat of the girl waiting outside a nice Italian restaurant, then a quick “she’s in the bathroom so I can send you a selfie with my pasta” text. She goes quiet after that though, and it distracts Bellamy enough from his history text to wonder if it’s the good, I’m going home with her silence, or the bad, she’s leaving me dead in a ditch kind.

He isn’t worrying for long; after about 20 minutes Clarke wanders into the kitchen, where Bellamy is making hot cocoa. “Make some for me, too?” she asks, falling into a chair and resting her head on the table.

“Of course. How was it?”

“She told me my hair looked great,” Clarke offers, voice muffled in the wood of the table, and Bellamy smiles. She adds, “apparently, telling her that my roommate did it for me, and then showing her a cute picture of us, wasn’t the right thing to say in response.”

“You learn something new every day,” he agrees, distracted, because this conversation is going somewhere. He just isn’t sure what way.

Clarke looks up at him, face totally open. “I wanted to tell her there was no reason to be jealous, but.”

“You couldn’t?” Bellamy says, voice totally blank.

“I couldn’t,” Clarke echoes, and the next thing she knows, Bellamy Blake has his lips on hers, and it’s flying, it’s magic, it’s lasagna and aimless bickering and undecipherable snaps.

It’s the two of them, and that makes it like nothing else in the world.

“It’s about time,” he whispers against her mouth. “I’m pretty sure I love you.”

It should be impossible to kiss someone while beaming that largely, but the fact that they can make it work is the only proof Clarke needs that this is real. They fit, just like they always have.

She should really tell him she loves him, but her brain is kind of short-circuiting, and- “you know what makes hair grow really fast?” Clarke says instead, pulling back.

“No idea,” Bellamy mumbles against the skin of her neck, and she stifles a sigh.

“Getting pregnant,” Clarke manages, keeping her voice relatively even, and Bellamy chokes.

“Listen,” he finally says. “I think we’ve established that I love you, but I really don’t think we’re ready to deal with a kid yet.”

“Point,” Clarke says, grinning wickedly. “But maybe we should practice trying to get me pregnant. Just in case.”

And after a few kisses and moans and _I love you’s,_ that’s exactly what they do.

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me over all the bellarke happening this season on tumblr @gabrielledelacour


End file.
